


A Venus Flytrap

by beekeepercain



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Afterlife, Expanded lore, F/M, Future, Heaven, Jealousy, M/M, Redemption, Trust, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-26 15:52:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/967793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beekeepercain/pseuds/beekeepercain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"The insanity of guilt is the hope for redemption and the denial of it when offered a chance."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Venus Flytrap

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zombieheroine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zombieheroine/gifts).



> What the everliving... I don't multiship but this happened, anyway.  
> Let's call it coping and be done with it.  
> I'm worried I'm going to piss off all Destiel shippers and all Megstiel shippers at once with this but hell, that's an achievement on its own, isn't it? I'm also worried I'm going to piss off every Meg fan out there with my depiction of her, too, because this bases heavily on Thompson's addition to the character due to the theme chosen. Oh well.
> 
> I'm not tagging major character death for the sole reason that everyone in this fic is dead Castiel aside but they're still very much active in spirit, you know, afterlifestyle.  
> Comments very much appreciated, btw. Gifting to **Zombieheroine** for her continued support and for still putting up with my longer-than-life quotes and baseless whining over Skype, not to mention for being the only person so far who agrees with my depiction of the relationship between Castiel and Meg. 
> 
> Foreword now done away with, proceed as intended.

 

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Heaven was unchanged. The wind in the morning still brushed through the trees like gentle hands waking up the world to a new day; Dean still found himself from next to Castiel when the sun rose, saw the faint glimmer of the halo around him if he really looked, heard the sound of his wings when he moved just because he willed it to be so. He could walk outside and come back inside and everything would be unchanged – his paradise that he shared with the one who was a part of him like his own heart was, half of his core element without whom he was never complete, it stayed stable year after year after year, although time in heaven passed differently from how it did on earth. It wasn't a lie to say it was timeless and forever, and after ascending he did understand a little better how agelessness felt to the angel, even if he would never experience it quite the same as a human.  
  
However, not everything was unchanging, and not all of the changes were under his control. He had a say in most everything: if he would have willed it so, the sun would have never stopped shining and it would never be Monday again, but he preferred his lot to be as he remembered life, natural and unpredictable. Yet still, he was only comfortable with change when it happened according to his will. There were things he could not stop from changing – things that weren't under his control.

Namely, there was Castiel.

The change was gradual. At first he barely noticed it. An eternity had passed just alike: some days they spent in bed, never getting up at all, and others they were busy, either at what was their home together or separately. Castiel could be gone for what Dean interpreted as weeks. His absence never worried him, it just made him happy to have him back again. He'd left his heaven many times himself, most often when Castiel was absent for a longer while and he started craving company that did not otherwise present itself – he'd visit Sam, he'd visit the Roadhouse, he'd go in at Bobby's for a game of chess or a competitive debate. Sometimes he was lured out by Charlie and they spent days just scouting the unscouted, getting lost in the endless horizon until they had to call themselves back to find their way out. Death wasn't a bad thing. Paradise wasn't boring. Heaven wasn't a field of clouds where the only way to pass time was to play the harp and praise the good Lord.

  
When Castiel was out, it was usually because he was still a guardian of humanity, a soldier of Heaven. He had his duties to which he attended as he always had, now with renewed passion after finding his own way of doing it. When Dean had died, he'd settled in the man's heaven and slowly recovered. For the first years, perhaps decades, he'd just been there or if he'd left, he'd left with Dean. It had been a season of absolute rest for him, a period of silence, and during that time he'd found a home unlike any he'd had before. It had surprised him, the feel of roots settling in this ground, and at first Dean had known it scared him as well. He hadn't expected to be anyone's _soulmate_ , not even Dean's, but the manner in which he was a piece of the puzzle with which everything became complete, and Dean's heaven the puzzle that completed _him_ , was undeniable. They accepted it and Castiel stayed.  
Each and every morning, even when spent apart, they both knew this was forever unchanging. This was the place they would always return to.

And it was for that reason Dean now felt cold and afraid at the changes in his angel. The way Castiel spaced out in front of the window and barely spoke – he could sit in the same chair for hours or stand still for even more and that was strange, it was alarming. It spoke of change in the angel himself, and he, as the only uncertainty in the full picture, seemed to have found the seams by which he was attached into it. There was something pulling him apart from Dean, something he couldn't share with him, and although Dean knew in his heart that they were of the same mold, he couldn't prevent the fear that lurked within from taking over. Castiel, as an angel, had never been supposed to have a home beyond his garrison, no reason away from his cause. What if it was his nature that rebelled? What if he was truly changing like he'd always changed, growing out of the form that had tied him to Dean, that was tying him to the heaven?

Whatever his doubts were, Dean couldn't get him to share them. It grew worse day by day, endless hour by hour to the point where the angel avoided his gaze when he was there and more often than not, chose to be elsewhere.

 

*

 

The morning upon which Dean found Castiel from the porch and not from the bed, the morning that was unlike any other they'd shared yet, broke dark with thunder and pouring rain. He'd sought the house through still not fully awake, bumping into door frames and the table on which their mugs were sitting unwashed from the day before, the scent of coffee strong around them.  
A sense of dread had settled inside him when he'd realised Castiel wasn't there; he'd never left before waking him up if he'd stayed to guard Dean's sleep, and he'd always stayed after making love as they'd done the night before. The only option that made sense to Dean was that he'd left unwilling, that something terrible had happened.  
And then he opened the door, cold already and ready to scout the grounds for any leads, and the angel had stood there. Just stood, wearing the same clothes of his vessel's that he'd worn during Dean's lifetime, the look like a suit of armour, signaling a readiness for action. Normally Castiel preferred to wear what Dean had taught him to – loose, comfortably worn shirts and jeans, and unlike Dean had taught him, no socks or shoes, even while outdoors.  
Seeing him like that was perhaps even more alarming than finding him from the porch had been, but the warm look Castiel gave him as he finally turned stopped him on his tracks and prevented him from flipping out.  
”You going somewhere?” Dean asked, his voice full of careful fear.

Castiel nodded.  
”There is something I need to do - someone I need to look for. I've finally found a way. It has kept me on edge, I am sure you have noticed. I might be gone for a while.”

Dean swallowed. He shivered with cold, his thin pajama pants hardly protecting any of his body from the chill.  
”Oh no, man, you can't just ditch me like that. You've gotta tell me _something_ , Cas, you know that, right?”  
  
He tried to be brave – tried to make it casual. Truth was, his soul still had not fully healed, even if Castiel said it would eventually regenerate, assured him his was like any other human soul, and that human souls were strong and healed well, even when torn, hurt and broken like his had been. Fear resided in those wounds, and the fear of abandonment was one of the worst.  
A faint smile crossed the angel's lips. He took a step back and turned, laid his hand on Dean's shoulder and the other on his arm, pulling him close and kissing him softly.  
Dean held onto him, the gesture showing just how he felt and how much he needed reassurance. He knew Castiel read it from him – knew he was as obvious as the light of day.

”I remember,” the older spoke after a moment, still holding Dean against him, his coat protecting the younger from the cold as Dean's arms were underneath it still, ”a certain soul deserving of redemption that we could not save in time.”

”Huh?”  
Dean raised his eyes to examine the angel.  
”Which of the hundreds?”

Castiel licked his lips and looked away towards the lake just some fifty feet ahead from where they stood. His breath came out as thin, translucent mist that dispersed into the moist air within a second of its appearance. He thought for a moment, perhaps of how much he would dare to speak. Then, as he looked at Dean once more, he seemed to have settled with full honesty.  
”I've found a way to open a gateway. I hope that once I am on the other side, I can find Meg.”  
  
His words left a hole in the noise of the rain. It lasted until a thunderstrike sewed it shut, with Dean still staring at him.  
”Meg?” he finally spat out incredulously, ”Meg the demon?”

Castiel's certainty wavered. Dean could see it in him, the flicker of his eyes towards another direction, shying from the eye contact that he did resume so fast it was clear he was trying to cover up ever looking away to begin with.  
”Yes.”

”Meg the demon that possessed my brother, sent hellhounds to rip Jo apart and killed all my dad's friends just to blackmail him? That same Meg?”

”The same one, yes. I have not forgotten her sins but she did -”  
  
”She did what, Cas?”  
Dean felt the burn of the tears in his eyes but couldn't place the fault on anything in particular. It was the anger that prompted them, and the anger was born of hurt, but he couldn't venture further than that. He wouldn't allow himself to.  
”She used you, Cas, to survive. That's all she did.”

Castiel smiled. He turned away and Dean let him go – if he would walk from him, then he could. Dean wasn't going to hold him back. He just wished with all his heart that he would stay.  
Then, at the top of the steps, the angel turned to look at him again.

”She died to let you live, Dean. She did that and more. There were things said and done between me and her that mean a lot to me and that weren't faked nor spoken and done for selfish ends. I'm not asking you to come with me, not even if you could come. I understand.”

”No, you don't. I don't think you do understand, Cas. But it's okay. Just go. If you end up dead – if you end up stuck in there _for her_ , then God help you, Cas. Because I sure as hell won't.”  
It was the anger speaking, but he couldn't hold back. With that he turned and walked back inside, slamming the door closed after him. On his way back to bed he swiped down the cups from the table and the sound of them breaking left him hollow, and that hollow echoed with pain.

 

*

 

Blood flowed thick from the cut on the vessel's wrist. Castiel placed his fingers into the stream and drew sigils over his arms with the blood to align with the portal that was yet to be created. The pain he felt was very real and shook him to the core – he'd cut into the flesh with his own blade, so it wasn't just the vessel's blood that he'd drawn with it, it was the essence of his grace as well. It ached in him, but he was grateful for it, as it smothered the ache that was much worse than that, the one that Dean's anger had left inside him. Yet he wouldn't, couldn't, turn back at this point. The moment he'd heard there could be a way to still reach her, simpleness and clarity had been stolen from his time with Dean. He knew what the younger feared it meant but he had no words to make it easier for him, none that would tell him just how much he loved him still and how that would never change. He could not possibly explain what madness drove him on as Dean would have never wanted to hear him out even if he'd been willing to share the details, but it had become clear that no matter what his reasoning, it would never turn him from the need to try to offer redemption and absolution to the exceptional demon he'd shared a true bond with.

Years from that moment, Sam had told him what Meg had made him promise that night and the things she'd said to him that had lead to that revelation. He'd been blind to many things between them but with that conversation it had all fallen in place, the missing links between seemingly disconnected moments, misplaced words and strange gestures that did not belong in their given context.

The thought of all that made him smile, even now that the ache inside was growing further. The worst was that even if Dean had understood, he would not have been any less angry. He was jealous now and would have been doubly so if he'd seen the full picture. The hurt he caused him by just remembering this was barely bearable and Castiel knew it. He'd delayed his decision even after finding the ritual for this reason only; the last thing he wanted was to hurt Dean now that he'd finally found some peace, but the knowledge burned him inside like a brand and seared his being with the essence of truth. Meg had given him much yet he'd never paid back for it. He'd held up his part of the deal and kept her safe only to the point where she'd truly needed him, and at that stage, he hadn't been given a choice. So she had died to give them a chance, claiming she had done it for _him_ only. That Castiel had been the reason she'd found; that Castiel had returned to her some of what hell had once stolen. Truth was that he wanted to be the one to give her all of it, a new chance to become whole again – he wanted to be the one who would forgive her and show her that her kindness had not been wasted.

The fine hair at the back of the vessel's neck stood up and the angel shivered. The form felt so small, so compressed, so vulnerable this close to the opening, the rift that he'd just opened with muttered words and the sticky, thick mixture of herbs and charred bones and blood. The rims of the wound in space sparkled and swirled with pure electricity and blue flame licking at the surface of the stone he'd used for entrance. The spell had called for the bones of the earth and this was the very thing – the opening would lead him through the marrow to the world beyond. He'd been to many realms of afterlife but this one he knew little of. He did not know where demons went once their marred forms were freed from their chains. He did not know what became of them.

With one last glance to the deep blue sky above and the white clouds that slowly passed under the sphere Castiel stepped through the portal. The transfer felt like a pull at his very being, an unexpected violent tug that broke him into particles so small he could barely feel himself still there through it. Once he landed again, the world was dark and smelled of the blackened bones he'd used for the spell.

 

*

 

She hadn't won any favours from the absent gods tonight, either. With a pout she settled on the cold dirty asphalt next to the shell of the building behind her, fingers gripping her weapon tight although she could foresee no danger to fall upon her. The hellhound by her side stirred and let out a low groan, its giant feet tapping at the ground and the claws sending small stones flying through the air. A few of them landed on Meg's clothing and she patted them off, huffing. The sky above swirled as usual, the stormy feel of it never letting go.

At first, she'd thought this vast nothingness was better than hell. She'd been wrong, or then she'd just spent too many years away from the pit – the ugly sense of solitude had eaten her empty and although emptiness was less angry, less ready to lash out, the void was not exactly an improvement.

The wind that blew through the alley was as violent and unnatural as always. It wasn't cold tonight but it tore right through the flesh and into the bone, a reminder of hell rather than of any other realm. The gusts in here had no likeness to the breezes Meg could barely remember from her time in the realm of the living – not even the winds of storms had any resemblance to the blasts that ran through the hollow city she inhabited.

It was a shadow world, each building nothing but a facade, like a Hollywood set with everything covered in a thick layer of ash. Every once in an eternity her paths crossed with another demon: some she knew, some were so ancient and disfigured that even she couldn't name them, and others were newcomers, shaky and fearful as she had been when she first laid her feet upon the dusty streets. Some she'd tried to communicate with, only to learn that in here, she had no voice and there was nothing but black under the ash to draw lines onto and no language to write. Others she'd fought but it soon became clear there was no pain to be felt here, just like there was nothing else to be felt - nothing but the cold that gnawed at the bones and raked the skin like invisible nails that with an almost erotic tone to their touch wandered along the exposed parts of her body. She'd given up and turned into a shadow herself. Now whenever she saw one of _them_ , she did what she knew most of those lurking in the darkness did, too; she retreated from sight, avoided direct contact at all costs. Without a voice to speak out with, she could see no other option left for her. In full silence she fought an endless war against the blasting winds alone with her unlikely ally, the giant hellhound of Crowley's that the Winchesters had slain for a bloodbath back in the day, in hopes that one day she'd stumble across a way out. Not that she was stupid enough to believe in that hope, but somewhere deep, a flame was still burning.

What was unusual about tonight (if it was a night; she had long ago resorted to calling ”night” the time during which she was exhausted and ”day” the time she spent moving, although neither looked any different in the uniform world of coal) was Growley's anxiety. Usually the hound stayed relatively quiet, but now its low sounds of displeasement broke through the howling of the wind more and more frequently, and it seemed unable to stay still at all, instead pacing around restlessly. Meg had never become quite aware of the reason why the hound had a voice and hers was rendered to nothing, but in general, her companion seemed to be all around more well-adjusted to the environment as if originating from it and having returned home. It had changed from the way all hellhounds were in hell: it was more laid back and even apathetic towards most occurrences around it than any hound Meg had ever seen. It chose to follow her – she'd never made a pact with it in any shape or form. At first she'd tried to rid herself of its presence but eventually it had grown on her and become the one thing she enjoyed and desired to preserve. Now it would take much to separate them: she considered it almost a friend, but more of a guardian and a part of herself, something different from friendship but still borderlining it on occasion.

She'd already made the decision to move in anticipation of whatever it was that was making her giant companion so nervous when the rumbling began. In all her time there, she had never heard a sound such as that, but that was far from being the most alarming sign that was to present itself. When she looked up she saw a lightning strike not all too far from where she was, a couple blocks from the spot at most, and the horizon flash with the brightest of white lights, echoing a crack like that of thunder. She jumped up and was about to run, taking a single step towards the other direction before halting and stopping to stare.

What harm could it cause to go and see?

”Growley, heel.”

Her voice, for the first time since the day she'd lost it, came out clear and resonant like it had been stored away in prime condition, not stolen from her like someone had cut out her vocal cords in their entirety.

As they walked on in the sudden windless calm surrounding the oddness of the event, she rubbed her throat lightly with her pale fingers and wondered if this was the end of all things or just the beginning of a new chapter.

 

*

 

The stillness was strange. It was like standing in the middle of a hurricane, a perfect vacuum without the noise of the winds and the clutter it carried around. And there was no hurricane, either, just a city without a light beyond the eerie glow of the deep grey sky above. When Castiel glanced at that sky he finally saw the winds: there was a whirlpool above, and in the middle a large emptiness that shone a dim grey light, the only source of light in the whole realm.

It was a place of desperation but he saw its essence: it was like Hell without the fires, like Purgatory without the blood. A locker for souls claimed and spent, unable to move on before the damage done was purified. How that would happen, if it would, he didn't know.  
In the darkness, he felt eyes upon him and realised that he, too, was shining, and that his light was brighter than that cast from above. His wings, unprojected, shivered in the space behind him like glowing forms in mist and the sigils upon his hands shone with the blue light of his grace. Half-heartedly he tried to hide them but he was like a firefly, it was his form in here that glowed and he could not affect it. It was as he'd expected. He hadn't been invisible in Hell either no matter how much he'd wished for it to be so.

The longer he looked, the more of the faces he could make out from the dark. They were all twisted and mutilated and changed, all demons; some older, some ancient, some barely turned and still recognisable as damaged human souls. They were hiding in the darkness, inside the buildings and in their shadows, almost melting in like they were parts of the realm itself, the charred cores left behind by extinghuished violent flames. There were hundreds upon hundreds, some barely visible while others still seemed to be able to tell themselves apart from the rubble. None of them looked like the one he was searching for, but witnessing them all there made him instinctively draw out his blade. He was still but a slave to his purpose – a realm full of demons, already weakened, was like being left in a field ripe for harvest with all the means of finishing the task.

His whole being shivered as he forced the blade back in. He wasn't here to fight. The sight of his projected grace still caused a wave to run through the masses; the demons wavered, fled from sight and disappeared into the darkness. He could no longer tell their forms apart at all.

Displeased, he shook the nervous feeling from him and allowed his form to grow, sliding out from the restricted space of his vessel. The flesh melted into his form and the light he shed upon the city was like a hundred spotlights all aimed around him – he heard skittering like rats fleeing, knowing the brightness of him was scaring away the remaining audience. None of them wanted to be near an angel, not even in death. They were still like mice and he was the owl, perched upon their maze, all-seeing eyes tracing the tracks they fled through, seeking for but one of them. Since nobody knew just whom he was after, it was best to not take any chances. Soon the grounds were empty as far as he could see.

He spread his three pairs of wings and saw like a flame blasting through the scenery, the purest of lights flashing throughout the buildings everywhere, and in the wake of it, a hound howled loudly. It was a strange and an unexpected sound in the silence, so he aimed his gaze towards it.

  
There, in the middle of his light, still stood one figured, disfigured arm raised to cover her scarred eyes, guarding the center from his fire. He allowed the glow to fade, returning to his contained form once more. As his feet hit the dusty ground he was almost running, remembering the path in front of him like it was seared to his vision. His light was like a hidden candle now – it illuminated the immediate area around him and not much beyond. He knew the light was agony for demons, even dwindling as it was, but he also knew that the one he was looking for could stand it. She'd been so close she'd developed the strangest immunity to the burn.

 

*

 

Meg trembled. Her fingers were caught in the coarse hide of the hound next to her, standing still with all muscles strained in an aggressive stance. She heard its low growling but knew it was waiting for a sign; it did not want to attack, no sane creature wanted to match off with an angel, but it was loyal to her now. It seemed unsure why they still stood there when everything else had fled the scene – everything, Meg had never seen so many of them at once in the same place and for the first time realised she'd never been _quite_ as alone as she'd thought, that the ground underneath her, the dust that covered everything, it was _alive_ , full of those who had come before her and faded, turned into parts of the realm, that she _walked_ upon souls – yet the two of them stood still, both unmoving yet trembling with fear.

She did not know. She only hoped. It was clear that no matter what the reason for the angel's presence was, it was unheard of, perhaps the first time a being of God had descended into this place. There was no certainty on whether this was an end or beginning so she still waited, the lone live being standing as one with her beast, eyes covered and feet locked like rooted to the ground.

She heard the footsteps. She heard the... the sound, the piercing screeching that surrounded the being, the ringing of the Word, the _essence_ of the angel, and her knees fell under her and she hit the ground, sobbing. That was the general effect an angel had on demons, the reason why they fled; only the strongest could stand a faceoff with a full-fledged soldier of God, and the weakest would burn at very sight of one. There was no question of which of them prevailed. Lucifer had seen it so.

This angel was of the Seraphim order; she felt the aura, the _burn_ , the force that pushed against her. Of all the angels, seraphs were of the highest rank, only under the command of the archangels long gone by this point. Her face brushed against the ground that was now nothing but white bone, all of the dust on it blown away by the fire that stretched around her in all directions. If she'd look, move, just glance once, she would burn. She wasn't strong enough anymore. The thought scared her, but it also made her feel at ease. She wasn't sure what would happen when the dead died again, but she was certain to find out soon enough.

  
The angel stopped.  
It examined her in silence, then, unexpectedly, kneeled in front of her. She could hear the form shifting, not the ring of the true form but the cloth that covered the vessel, and Growley's stance finally faltered – with a dark flash and the scraping sound of claws, it was gone, perhaps deciding she'd accepted her fate and that it could do nothing to help her now.

The realm was scentless, it had become so once her senses had dulled to the stench of burned bone. The angel, however, was not scentless, and with a shiver and a gasp, she realised she knew the scent – she knew the angel. Fearful but stunned by the memory, she raised her eyes and within the blinding brightness, she looked at Castiel.  
A smile that had nothing to do with happiness spread upon her chapped lips. She felt humanity dripping into her like filling inside a dried shell, strengthening her up to stand against the light. It burned less bright the more she stood against it and finally, it hardly hurt anymore.  
”Cheers, Clarence,” she gasped, reaching a hand towards the male, ”To tell the truth I wasn't expecting to see you again.”

Castiel lowered his gaze and allowed her fingers to brush through his black hair to the rim of his ear and down his scrubby cheek and along the jaw. His hands leaned to the beautiful pale ground of ivory underneath them and for a moment, Meg concentrated on nothing but that, amazed that it had been there all the time under the layer of marred souls the angel had scared away.

”Surely you didn't come for _me_ now did you?” she asked, fear of another kind breeding in her now, the fear of being left behind, of separation.

The angel looked at her and his expression was serious.

”My sole purpose,” he spoke quietly and fell silent for a moment as if knowing the ringing had just grown too loud for her to hear his words if he'd continued right away, ”is to offer you redemption, should you wish for it.”

”Me, Clarence? Me, out of everyone?”

She wasn't worth it. The very thought hurt. Before knowing it, she was shying away from his presence, turning to flee. It was too much – she didn't know why, she couldn't _care_ why, the only thing that mattered was to get out.  
She shrieked at the feel of the hand firmly but gently taking a hold of her wrist.

”Why do you call me Clarence?”

Her legs trembled but for once held her weight and she managed to look back – not directly at Castiel, but close enough.  
She let out a small, terrified laughter and shook her head.  
”I bet your boyfriend knows,” she jested, turning away again.

His grip of her wrist turned tighter.  
”Let me help you. Please.”

”I can't.”  
She trembled as she wrestled her hand free.  
”I don't deserve you.”

 

*

 

The insanity of guilt is the hope for redemption and the denial of it when offered a chance. She ran as fast as she could until she reached a flimsy shed and hid inside, panting and doubled over from exhaustion and pain. In moments, she tensed up and raised her head to the sound of steps, but soon relaxed again as she realised the main sound from them was the tapping of long, heavy claws upon the ground. Growley pushed through the small doorway making the wood creak and whine at pressure and settled by her feet, letting out a satisfied little grunt, perhaps at finding her alive or just because it had settled so comfortably on the ground.

Meg reached a hand to pet its side, a strange habit she'd developed. Hellhounds weren't pet dogs but for an unclear reason, offering affection in this manner to the beast gave Meg a comfort she couldn't find elsewhere in this realm. It rooted her to the moment and made her aware of current things, the details of the beast resting by her side and the manner the wind was howling again and how the dust swirled and spiralled back in place.

In the wake of normalcy she felt like crying out, regretting her choice to run but yet relieved by it at the same time. Why did that stupid angel come here _for her_ , what was he thinking? The stupid, stupid dove must have felt responsible for her – that he owed her something for some obscure deed he thought she'd achieved for him. No. He could and he should return now, realising he owed her nothing at all and the very reason she was here was that his debt was paid and hers, too. It was all in its rightful place, everything where it belonged, and she would turn to dust and cover the streets of the ghost town just like the demons before her because that was where they waited for absolution to come, that was where they belonged. Humans in heaven, fiends in hell, monsters in purgatory and dead demons in their shadow lands, wandering the ashes until the end of times or more.

Why would the crazy angel ever think of changing the foundations of afterlife itself, to fetch a purposeless, wasted soul like hers out of its rightful place? She didn't even remember who she was. Her memory of her own self and her origins were gone, she could have as well been born in hell and that wouldn't have made a difference.

 _He brought back Dean Winchester.  
_ At God's orders. _  
He brought back Sam Winchester.  
_ Not in full.  
 _But he would have, if he could have._

”You're not beyond salvation.”  
Her voice wavered and Growley reacted to it by raising its large head from on top of its equally large paws. It collided with the ceiling of the shed but the sound of impact was drowned in the winds.  
 _You are not beyond salvation._

But did she desire it?

 

*

 

Dean woke up alone for the third day in a row. He took a cup of coffee to the dock and sat at the head of it, dipping his feet into the water and let the steady, calm waves lick the soles clean of the dirt he'd gathered up on the way there. Anger had subsided and instead of it he just felt the emptiness inside, the same kind that now dominated the feel of his paradise, a certain hollowness that followed him around wherever he went. He'd spent the first day wandering the surrounding forest alone – it was the type that stretched on forever unless he commanded the landscape to allow entrance to another realm, and he'd exhausted himself in there, never turning back at all before settling to sleep for a safe return to his bed at the cabin he called his home.

The second day he'd trekked the opposite direction and sought out Sam, intending to vent about the subject to the younger. Their heavens were connected – the moment Sam had died, Dean had felt him arrive and he'd found him in no time like a compass had directed him there. He knew, like he knew the case with Castiel, that Sam was his soulmate: they shared a heaven too, although it was different from the way he shared his with Castiel. It was more that theirs were two different heavens existing in the same plane, like a joint house with one door at each end. They weren't side to side but they were always _there_ and no matter where they went, the other could always find his way to the other.

Sam's heaven was as strange to Dean as Sam claimed Dean's was to him – both of them had made a point out of mocking the other's ideal of perfection.  
 _'You want a freaking apple pie house with a white picket fence and three dogs on your backyard? Speaking of which, it's heaven – do they still shed?'_

 _'Dude, you live in a freaking hunting cabin. That's not even a_ house _, Dean.'_

_'At least I had the imagination to ask for a freaking lake, man. And beer. C'mon, it's still cold.'_

The first visits had been like that. Just exploration, quiet rebonding and healing after death had separated them. They'd never talked about it, the way Dean had died or how Sam had dealt with it. They'd talked about what happened afterwards, though – how each had settled in their new lives, or at least in Dean's case, the _after_ life, and once they were caught up to date, they simply moved on. There was a lot to do, a lot of other people to catch up with and most importantly, they were both on foreign ground. It called for exploration and study, but for the first time for them both they finally had time to put that on a secondary position on their list of priorities.  
  
Since Dean had found it impossible to actually talk of Castiel's absence or the reasons for it with Sam, they resorted to drinking instead and ended up arguing over semantics in such an aggressive manner it indirectly helped to clear up the tension Dean had felt ever since he'd slammed that door between himself and the angel.

On the third day it seemed he would be alone. He didn't want to do anything or talk to anyone – the only thing he distantly desired to do was to drown himself but the act seemed too bothersome knowing he'd only wake up from his bed again afterwards, or at least he would if Castiel had told him the truth about it. Today wasn't a good day to prove him wrong, so he merely drank his coffee in silence and hoped that the hours to come would bring his angel back as so many before had done. Yet he knew that even if the older would return, even if he did so that very precise moment, it would only be half the problem solved. Granted, it was the worse half – Dean avoided thinking of what he'd said to him, how he'd told Castiel it would be his own problem if he ended up locking himself in wherever it was he was going - but still _just_ a half of it. What would remain was the distance between them and the burned bridge that was still smoking and glowing with embers waiting for fuel to be thrown at them, and on top of that would now be whatever had happened between the angel and the demon if he'd found her.

The thought made Dean's fingers grow cold.  
He laid down the now empty cup of coffee, took off his pajama pants and slid into the cool water. He'd swim until he'd feel exhausted and once that would be done, he'd go back to hibernate again. Just to forget – just to fastforward to a time where he could do something about the issue, should such a time be granted for him.

Under the water, the pale light of the cloudy sky filtering through the surface seemed like milk mixing in with the waves.

 

*

 

Castiel raised his eyes towards the whirlpool in the sky. He couldn't shake the cold of the realm, it bit far beneath his clothes and kept him wishing he could be elsewhere, somewhere far from the stench and the eyes in the dark. He'd contained his glow as well as he could and settled to wait, sitting on the dusty ground and hoping to come up with a new plan while waiting for the demon to make her move. Yet his current state of smallness and relative dimness had made the rest of the realm's inhabitants more curious than they were afraid again and he was never alone, not completely. He'd let the fact remain for the sole reason that he believed none of the shadows would attempt to attack – there was nothing they would gain from it. Not many of them looked like they truly even had a purpose anymore: they seemed interested just because he wasn't supposed to be there. He was a fish out of water and even though some of them examined him like a way out or like they were trying to figure out how to trap him and use him for their own ends, most just seemed to want to watch him be like a dangerous animal exhibited in a zoo setting, there just for their entertainment.

The ones that seemed capable and willing to attack he believed he could shake off with nothing but the revelation of his true form: they weren't full demons anymore. They were broken even further down, to something that upon further investigation hardly even triggered a fight response from him. He watched them as they watched him and he tried to understand the purpose of this place. It evaded him entirely.

Finally he decided he'd waited long enough – not necessarily for himself but for Dean, who despite his bitter words and lack of prayers was, as far as Castiel knew him, only growing more distraught by his absence the longer he would stay. It wasn't a normal mission for him and each wasted hour would only serve to make the situation seem worse for the human. He wasn't praying for two reasons: the first was that he was too proud, he'd told Castiel he didn't _care_ , and therefore praying would betray his stance. The second was that he feared the answer, or more precisely the lack of one. Castiel hoped he would be back before Dean's stance would falter, because there was no way for him to reach back to the man in case he would call out for him.

  
The angel stood up and wiped off the dust from his coat, stretched the faded wings behind him for light in the dark and started walking. He crossed into the first alley with half a blade visible, making it clear that any attempt on his life would be met with readiness, but the shadows were once again scared away by the light he carried with him. His steps treaded echoing empty alleys after the other until he crossed a wider road, only to dive right back into the maze of the small streets crisscrossing the strange city around him.  
He wondered if this place was a reflection of a similar setup that would contain dead angels, like two sides of a mirror, as they were in life. The thought of it stroke fear inside him and he walked faster, devoted to his purpose and to shedding that thought from his mind but it did not leave. Inevitably, as an eternity was a curious, ever-changing thing, he would find out. Immortality wasn't absolute. His time would come.  
 _Even God will die._  
And he was just an angel.

The wind that had caught up with him carried black with it. His steps raised clouds of it from the surface of the ground and he knew that if he'd allow more of his true form through, he could clear it up again, but there was something about the realm that made him passive. He couldn't _bother_ banishing the essence from him anymore, there was no purpose in doing so. He struggled to fight against the apathy flooding into him but couldn't. It didn't matter, after all, as long as he'd find Meg again soon. It wouldn't have an effect on him once he'd be out. If he'd be out.  
Even that didn't seem so important anymore.  
  
After wandering for a while he stopped, realising he had very little idea of where he'd ended up in. The walls all looked the same shade of black as they'd looked the whole time before but it was more sheltered here. For a passing moment he considered flight to form an understanding of his surroundings but he gave up on the thought almost immediately. It was purposeless: he wasn't lost yet and he hadn't found Meg either, there wasn't much sense in flaring up the whole area and potentially scaring her even further away. Even as he thought this he knew it wasn't his reason – he was giving up on the search, he didn't _care_ anymore. That was alarming but he couldn't be alarmed.  
Confused and feeling heavy, he sat down on a blackened wooden box leaning against the wall and found himself unwilling to even think of continuing.  
  
The air here was like poison to him.

 

*

 

She saw him. At first she didn't dare to approach but he didn't move away – in fact, he wasn't moving at all. He sat there with his hands over his face and breathing in the ash that was raining from the sky like it meant nothing. She took a step forwards, her doubts pushed aside by a strange feeling that above all resembled worry, it was almost fear that had nothing to do with her own survival, a very distantly familiar feeling that she'd barely felt at all for hundreds of years.  
When she reached him, she realised he was like a fly in the process of being digested by a venus flytrap. He didn't belong here, yet the effect of the realm was much stronger on him than it was on those who did belong here - there was so much about him that could still be drained away.

She laid a hand over his shoulder and kneeled in front of him, eyes seeking contact with his. It took him a small forever to even acknowledge her presence and when he looked at her, the gaze was void of recognition for yet another. Finally a light lit up behind the blue and he squinted a little as if not quite sure how she'd ended up there. He reached out to push back her coarse, tangled hair and lifted her face up by the chin, tilted his head and examined her for a moment. Behind her, the hellhound traipsed anxiously around.

”Hey, Clarence,” she spoke hesitantly, pulling back from the touch, ”I was thinking, how did you intend to save me? I'm not going to end up on some Bible camp, am I? Never fancied myself a girl scout, really.”  
She attempted a grin but her fear was too strong.

Castiel stood up, appearing still as disoriented as ever, and he took a look around before focusing on Meg again. She noted the blade in his hand but didn't think much of it. She wasn't afraid of being killed by Castiel out of all beings – if it would come to that, she'd mourn him more than she'd feel sorry for herself. He didn't deserve to be lost in or swallowed whole by this dusty dionaea. Should it come to that, she wouldn't allow it to happen.

The angel frowned and looked towards the direction of where he'd come from. Meg noted a faint glow underneath the sleeves of his coat and the shirt below and wondered where it came from. Before thinking it through, she'd reached for the cloth and pushed it up along his arm to reveal symbols of some kind, written in what looked like glowing paint but smelled coppery like blood. The light of it seemed to pulsate in the darkness that surrounded them and as Castiel looked down upon it, he seemed to sharpen up somehow.

His fingers bent around Meg's hand and pulled it away from his arm, allowing the sleeve to fall back down again. Their eyes met and he watched her carefully for a moment before his expression turned into a minor, thoughtful frown and he finally spoke.  
”I never thought that far into it," he started in a response to what she'd spoken earlier, "To know exactly how to proceed required me to witness your condition first. I needed to know... how much of you remains in the state you were in when we last met.”

”And how much exactly is that?”

He looked at her again.  
”Less,” he said after a moment, ”You have changed.”

”Does the change flatter me or am I just less of a thorny beauty now?”  
Meg's voice was playful although she was still in full defensive, ready to flee at any sign of having to go through with the forming plan.  
  
Castiel tilted his head again. He was at full loss for words and it showed. Eventually he simply turned to look away and Meg could have sworn he showed all the signs of blushing.  
”Okay, loverboy, I'm gonna take that for a compliment and if it wasn't, you better not be telling me. So what's it gonna take to grant me redemption?”

Now the look he gave her was more measuring – he wasn't looking at _her_ as much as he was looking at what she was, and she felt like she was a broken vase and he the one with the glue, deciding whether it was worth it to try to put her back together.  
Finally his eyes strayed back towards her and she felt his aura again, as if he'd somehow regained his own essence while searching for hers.  
”Your trust,” he said simply.

Meg stared at him and took a step back. Growley let out a snarl and stepped to her side, sensing her hesitation and fear.  
”My what now?”

”Trust me.”

The angel held out his hand, the glow of the symbols painted upon his skin clearer than a moment ago.  
”I will bring you away from here and give you back all that I can. If it is not enough to cure you -”

”I don't want to be cured. There's nothing to cure me of. I'm not _sick_ , Castiel.”

”- then I will do my best to find another way. You gave your life for our cause. You've sown the seeds of redemption within on your own. You are not beyond salvation, should you seek it.”

The wind howled again and ash spread upon them, staining her face and his hand and the glow of the symbols wavered at contact to it.  
Meg trembled but unlike she'd expected, she wasn't running yet. The temptation within grew, a desire, a _need_ for fulness that she'd already forgotten... She was being offered a way out of this endless tunnel, but the strength she needed to reach out for it in turn was nowhere to be found.  
”What did you say?” she croaked out instead, seeking a way out as she spoke without truly listening to her own words.

”That you are not beyond salvation.”  
 _You are not beyond salvation._

The words carried a meaning within that resonated inside her. Slowly she looked back at the seraph now standing in front of her, unaffected by the blasting winds, the light of his form a warm shade of gold that did not belong here. What were her options? To stay here and turn to ash or take his hand and follow him through the unknown? When had she ever been one to be afraid, to cower from a challenge no matter how terrifying, if it promised a way out of a dead end? This was surely as dead of an end as they came – she was just as much a fly trapped in the mouth of the trap as Castiel had been moments before. In his unmoving form she'd seen all the shadows of this realm and that was in her future, too. There was nothing here for her but an eternity of falling apart. That had never been her.  
That would never _be_ her.

She took his hand and felt like a flame passing through the connection. The angel's grace flowed into her and he grabbed her tighter, brought her against him and she wasn't sure what was happening – he was everywhere around her, inside her, upon her and she couldn't move when the panic struck her.  
The embrace didn't hurt but it was much too invasive, the angel leaked into her from every pore in her skin and he was one with her in a sense that left no corner of her unseen or hidden. She felt those dark places within her open up to his touch and she knew, remembered, tasted, saw, felt, heard and smelled all the things that had been for her before. She could hear her own scream, a dying voice that barely held up against the wind but it stemmed from deep within at hell bursting open within her – it poured out from the thousands upon thousands of now concealed wounds and injuries she'd suffered and she could once again feel the burning hooks in her flesh, tugging and tearing at the strings until they gave in and she fell through the dark into a pit of spears that penetrated her flesh and broke through her skull, taking out her eyes.  
The memories changed and burned away to be replaced by others. She couldn't stop the flow nor could she slow it down when the nightmare was over and she saw a green field in front of her, felt the blades of sunlit grass against her fingertips and the dusty warm scent of the doll pressing against her face filling her with a sensation of blissful safety. It faded like the memory of hell and more flashed in, more broke apart, more settled into her like pieces of the broken vase that she was, and she felt them regain their places within her and bit by bit she was becoming whole again.

 _Human_ again.

The longer the healing lasted the less she resisted the angel's presence. The looser hell's grasp on her became and the more she regained of who she had been before she'd lost herself, the more she embraced his presence, the lighter she felt and the more she wanted to keep him there close to her as long as he would allow her to. It didn't matter where they were going or what would happen next. She had never been safer than she was now with him.

 

*

 

He carried her across the distance towards the scarred-over portal in flight, leaving a trail of ivory behind them as everything on the path dispersed. The area on which he landed crumbled into an open field and, still holding her within, he reopened the wound in the plane and entered through. The feel of her gripping him back was the strongest of all sensations he felt as they left behind the black realm and entered the world of the living at the exact location Castiel had opened the portal at. The trees fell around them and a blast of fire burned the grass from the spot before his wings were drawn back and he could turn to close the portal. Once it had faded, he regained flight, still holding the other's soul within him for the time being – he landed again in the midst of a wooded area relatively far in the wilderness next to a bunch of dirty, unburied and scattered human bones that had laid there exposed to elements and animals for a very long time. They looked abandoned and insignificant as if they had never belonged to a person at all, and as he walked to them and kneeled down by their side, he felt a sense of melancholy at the sight.

 _This is the body I can offer to you,_ he told the woman.  
Her soul shifted as he touched the bones and allowed her to reach for them, to identify them.

 _What of my own?_ she asked, hesitant.

_Purified and reclaimed by earth._

For a while, she remained silent and unmoving. Then her soul leaked towards the bones again and at contact, Castiel allowed her to pour out and into the dried marrows. Her soul fell into a waiting state, an unmoving silence that allowed him to rebuild the flesh around the bones and bring life into the body she now resided in before she would reawaken and take control of it, saving her the agony of exposion and growth.

Her freshly rebuilt arms bore the scars from where he'd held her and her soul, still scarred and damaged but no longer broken or disfigured, carried a brand, a claim, just as well that still shone bright enough for him to see it without searching for it. It would fade with time but never completely vanish from her, and those who would see her as she was would know what had been done and that he alone was responsible for it.

Stirring, Meg opened her eyes and squinted at the bright sunlight. Her arm trembled as she brought her hand up for shade and examined the world as if seeing it for the first time. She spent a moment just taking in the scenery before slowly climbing into a sitting position and locking her eyes with Castiel's.

”Brunette again, eh?” she asked, disoriented, with fingers up in the long hair of the body that was now truly hers.  
A small laugh escaped her and she fell back on her back, face up towards the trees and the cloudless sky.  
”I feel so weird, like an angel just planted me in the corpse of some poor girl No-Name from Nowhere, USA whom I possessed a century ago and who then ended up dumped like a bag of trash in the woods after a narcissistic crossroads demon stabbed me dead inside her, can you imagine that, Clarence?”

Castiel looked at the branches of the trees around them painted gold by the sun that was slowly descending towards the horizon.  
”No,” he spoke then, ”I can't imagine it.”  
He was still kneeling next to her but building an eye contact between them took a lot more from him than it should have.  
”You remember it all?”

Meg nodded.  
”More than I'd care to,” she confirmed, ”So did it work? It feels like it worked. I feel... odd. Not so pissed off and hungry for torture, anyway, if you know what I mean.”  
  
In a manner, it was a relief for him that she remembered it all. He allowed the blade slip out into his hand and he raised it between them, pointing it towards the forest and not towards either of them. His eyes were still upon her.  
  
”It didn't work, did it,” Meg sighed, eyes upon the blade.  
  
"Better than I had hoped for."  
  
She appeared pale and weak and, most of all, very naked. With the realisation of this and connecting it to the difference between how he read nudity and how the woman read it, Castiel turned his gaze away again, shame clear in the manner he reacted. The younger smirked.  
”Oh, no, come on - look if you want to look, it's my skin now, isn't it? I don't mind, Clarence. But I wouldn't mind it if you put the blade away, too; of course it's pretty and everything but I'm really happy to be alive again and would prefer to keep it that way.”

His gaze escaped back to her and he frowned a little. He'd expected to take her life here to allow entry to heaven instead – there was nothing keeping her soul from it now that it was purified and intact again with a clear claim placed upon it, a vouch for her worthiness, but she was clearly unaware of this and as such he didn't know how to proceed.

”It is not your world anymore,” he spoke uncertainly after an awkward moment of silence had already spanned between them, prompting a questioning, teasing raise of a brow from Meg at him.

”And? What did you bring me here for, then, if I can't stay to enjoy it?”

Castiel tilted his head and frowned a little. This was unexpected. He had ignored the basic desire of all humanity to live and survive – he'd expected a desire to move on, not to linger. Now that he took this in account, it did seem a stupid prejudice from his side. He brought the blade back in and shook his head. Meg scoffed.

”Look, let's put it this way. It hasn't been my world for a long while now, but I didn't crawl back in a skin just to get us both stabbed to death again. I want to see the flying cars, Clarence, and all the futuristic architecture, I want to feel the wind in my hair and get a boyfriend and make some babies and grow old and die of a stroke in my sleep. I want to live the life I didn't live before. The one I lost. I want to be happy again before I die... again.”

She took his hands into hers and smiled, and for the first time Castiel realised he didn't know the woman behind those eyes. They had never met before.  
He struggled for words.

”What?” Meg huffed, brushing his cheek as she let go of him again, ”You trying to tell me the cars still aren't flying?”

Castiel shrugged.  
”No,” he replied slowly, ”although the cars in fact still do not fly, more as a matter of convenient traffic design and restrictions of current city environments as well as the unfortunate shortcomings of efficient fuel technology to match the requirements of -”

”Shut up,” the younger laughed, standing up.

She took a few clumsy steps forwards, her bare feet brushing through the undergrowth like their sole purpose was to feel the earth and not to stand upon it.  
”I want to stay, Clarence. I want to stay and when I've paid my debts, I want to come to you with a full account of things I did right in my life.”  
She looked at him and reached a hand out for him.  
”Bring me somewhere I can start over,” she pleaded him.

He took her hand and brought his fingers between hers for a reason he couldn't define for himself. The energy her soul contained was vast and it was burning with a light he hadn't expected from someone so freshly returned from dead.  
”If it is what you want,” he finally agreed.

In front of a sheltered back entrance to a church they parted half as strangers, half as friends who had been through so much that there truly were no words left to be spoken. The kiss she stole from him had as much teeth as she'd given him on their first one, leaving his lower lip throbbing.

 

*

 

The breeze in the trees surrounding the unpaved road home was welcoming and nothing like the gusts that had clawed the city of shadows. Castiel always chose to walk the way in, but this time, he'd started from even farther than usual, knowing a part of him wanted to delay the inevitable to take as much time as he could to prepare himself. Yet when he already saw the cabin from behind the trees he still wasn't any more prepared for what would come than he'd been when he'd first laid his feet upon heaven's soil.  
  
With a certain dreadful heaviness inside he ascended the steps up to the porch and reached out to knock at the door only to find that he really didn't have it in him to do it just yet. He took a few steps to the left and then back again before finally bringing his knuckles upon the wood with a loud, sharp sound. Even as he did so he knew Dean had already heard him there – the creaking of the wood alone would have alerted him, but to top that his footsteps were as heavy as he felt and had traipsed along the porch with the exact kind of incertainty that Dean probably expected of him. Not to mention the man would know his steps from the midst of a million others, and now they were the lone sound crossing the choir of birds dominating the soundscape of their home.  
Castiel heard him approach the door, knowing he'd waited for him to knock as if he hadn't been there waiting for him to return at all, as if he didn't care, as if his prayer had not reached the older halfway back from his journey.

The door opened to a tension so thick the angel could feel it slide along his skin and root him to spot. Dean, pretending he wasn't affected by it at all, simply turned away and walked back into the kitchen, sat down by the table and continued drinking coffee from the mug with the pink rim at the top which he only ever used when he felt lonely or hurt.  
  
The angel took the steps required to bring him inside the cabin and closed the door behind him. The tension, when locked inside with the two of them, was now so solid he felt like he was swimming in it.

”Goddamnit you're dirty,” Dean noted as he dropped off his shoes by the doorway.  
When Castiel looked at him, he was already looking out the window.

”I will get changed,” the angel replied in a tone that clearly implied he was trying to avoid conflict.

Soon after he started towards the bedroom and felt Dean watching him the whole way. The younger only turned his gaze away when he started taking off his clothes – truthfully, Castiel would have felt better if he'd kept looking.  
He'd gotten down to his underwear when Dean finally budged from the table and walked over to him. Unexpectedly, his fingers slid upon the angel's hips and below the waist of his boxers and pulled them down, leaving him completely exposed. Castiel, his hand half-reaching towards the wardrobe, turned to look at him as his palms returned upon his hip bones and stayed there. Dean pressed his face against the neck of the older's and breathed him in, the feel of his nose and lips rubbing against the skin raising fine hair up all over the angel's body. He lowered his hand and brought it upon Dean's instead, leaning into his gentle but possessive touch. His acceptance of the role had a relaxing effect on Dean – Castiel could feel his breathing slow down and his muscles lose some of the tension they'd upheld to that point.

”You're still mine?” the younger asked timidly but masking the fear well, breathing almost directly into the shorter's ear.

Castiel slid his free hand up the other's neck and into his hair. He couldn't deny enjoying the manner Dean held him; he was the powerless one here, the one held and controlled, but Dean was the vulnerable one.  
They always had a balance of weakness together, neither stronger than the other was.

”Always,” he promised in a low, quiet voice; ”Always.”


End file.
